


Taste, Touch, Sound

by pocketprince



Category: Latin Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Genderbending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketprince/pseuds/pocketprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fem!Argentina and Brazil PWOP. A bit of an old drabble from May 2012. Oral sex and a bit of teasing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste, Touch, Sound

He doesn’t have the focus to notice how pretty her French-pink, french-tipped nails are against the tan of his skin when he’s too busy focused on the pressure of her teeth against the inside of his thigh.

Martína tries to keep from grinning as she slides her tongue over the skin that has yet to become sun-drenched, always hidden by that embarrassing, stupid little sunga he’d wear (and way too many girls would stare at his ass for her liking.)

When Luciano lets out the slightest, shakiest whisper of her name, Martína leans forward to kiss underneath his navel as if saying “Good boy,” but it only makes him whine.

”Seriously?” He mumbles, flushed fire-engine red and on the verge of begging. She’s a devil, he swears in his head, an evil demon temptress of complete mean-ness.

When she swirls her tongue over his tip, he remembers that she’s an angel, too, and leans his head back against the pillows, covering his face with his palms and trying not to give in.

Martína can only give a sultry little chuckle, amused at her obvious victory as she courses her tongue over the underside of his cock before wrapping her lips about his tip.

Luciano nearly cries out in relief, toes curling at the sensation of her tongue and her breath and her thumbs against his thighs.

She is a devil and an angel and he is going to be sick, he swears, because nothing should feel this good.

But the rise in his stomach is thankfully not bile but arousal, a bit too much to bear, and he devolves into whiny, incomprehensible blabber as he does his best not to come too quickly.

Martína lowers her lips, rouge marks lingering about Luciano’s skin, until his tip is far back enough that the humming of her moans in the back of her throat tingles against him and he swears loudly past his fingers, and Martína keeps rubbing her thumbs in slow, satisfied circles as her own hips twitch in anticipation.

Her ears find only his swears and moans, increasing in volume, though outside club music pumps through the walls and pours onto the streets. In the dim light let in by the slightly-shaded window, she keeps her eyes closed, enjoying only the sensation of Luciano against her lips and tongue and in her mind and breath- the rhythm of his heartbeat drumming violently beneath her fingers as he comes.

And when he does, while he is panting and breathing and trying to wrap his head around the fact that just happened and was really that amazing, she slinks over to him like a cream-white goddess, golden hair slipping like silken sheets over pert, aroused breasts.

”You’re going to return the favour,” she mumbles in his ear, teeth tugging at the cartilage as she moves up, and Luciano barely manages to get in as many kisses as he can against the smoothness of her skin as she straddles his neck.

His hands find the curve of her behind and she almost scolds him, if it wasn’t for how quickly his breath finds her centre and breathes against it, every thousand nerves glimmering with anticipation and delight. 

”That wasn’t a moan,” she insists past a flushed pout, leaning on her elbows above his head and ignoring as he sticks his tongue out, licking up her abdomen.

”Sure sounded like one,” he replied, tongue slipping down and rubbing over her clitoris, making the Argentine squirm and cover her mouth. She’s not one for losing, but pleasure always seems to outweigh pride.

When his tongue finds its way inside of her, Martína is already trembling, and Luciano’s dark, strong hands keep her legs steady. She’s not going to lose, she wants to believe as her hips twitch, searching for more, but she is going to adore it.

And suddenly Luciano’s tongue is anywhere but near her and Martína lets out a groan of absolute disdain.

”What if I stopped?” he asks, kissing gently against her, his lips gentle as he can manage.

Martína rolls her eyes, slapping her hands over her face. “I will hate you,” she promises, “I will detest you, I hate you right now, I won’t do anything with you for a yeeaaa-” her complaints drown into squeaks as her back arches up in reaction to the probing tip of Luciano’s tongue and the pressure of the tip of his nose against her clit.

Suddenly she is the one charged with sparks in her stomach, whining at his teasing motions and begging with hushed, quick phrases she would be mortified by if Luciano were to hear. Luckily for her his focus is on her, on her taste and each little twitch and twist and shiver, on the breathy pants just barely still in his hearing range.

Luciano lets his tongue course adventurously against the location he has mapped out in his brain by now, and Martína nearly squeals, pressing her forehead into the sheets to muffle her shame and pleasure. 

Pleasure tends to win, of course, and after a bit of gentle coaxing, she is nearly begging- but not quite so loudly- shaking and gripping at her sheets as though the blessed moment will never come.

But it does, and Luciano does his best not to smirk as he feels her- as he knows she is- her muscles tightening suddenly and then relaxing, her voice expiring on one last breath as she rolls onto the sheets.

Luciano presses his lips to her stomach as Martína calms herself, still breathing heavily as her love makes his way over her breasts, collar bones, and to her lips-

And she quickly wipes off her mouth, momentarily disgusted. “You taste like-” and in an instant, Martína remembers why and is too embarrassed to continue with such language, rolling her eyes at her partner’s wagging brows.

”You were louder,” he accuses, “so I win.”

”I was not,” Martína replies, french-tipped nails dragging against Luciano’s brown-sugar shoulders as he pushes her sweaty silk drapes of hair from her face, “And I said by the end, boludo, unless you’re tired.”

Luciano snorts, pressing his lips to her neck and mumbling, the soft-hearted argument continuing.

He isn’t tired at all.


End file.
